Wayward Son
by Aurontalia
Summary: Another AU hp song-fic. Ron is whiny in it. I only own the angst.


**Wayward Son**

**Author Note: I am a figment of your imagination. You shouldn't have eaten that green jellybean. The one with spots you picked up off the floor. You know the one I'm talking about.**

**Synopsis: This is about Ron being whiny about how he is a sidekick, and not a really person in his own right like Hermione. The title is stolen from and inspired by 'Carry on My Wayward Son" by Kansis, which I learned about from watching the T.V show "Supernatural." In this semi-canon universe, Ron may end up being far more important than previously, and may end up 'getting the girl' so to speak. And no that does not mean Hermione, Ginny, or an 'imagined character used to represent myself' in this case. It's set roughly a few months after Draco wins the Quidditch match from 'Eye of The Tiger.'**

_Carry on my wayward son_

A carrot topped head raced across the battlefield (one of many), his hair blowing in the wind, his eyes tearing up at the speed he was flying. The goal was a ahead of him, a black figure, its arms raised. By his side raced a dark-haired figure, smaller and slighter, but oh so much more important. A jet of green light shot out from the figure, aimed toward the black-haired man beside him. Not a moment to think, he threw himself forward into the light.

He awoke dazed on the ground, the bushy-headed annoyed face of Hermione above him.

"Ron!" she half-shouted, "You're supposed to_ block_ it! Not_ throw_ yourself in front of it! If this were real, you'd be dead and then where would we be?"

He winced. It was yet another practice drill. One of the ones they'd been doing for months in case the dark lord attacked, and once again someone was annoyed at his performance. It was always that he was too slow or too fast, in the wrong place, or at the wrong time.

"Eug," Hermione ran her hands through her hair, adding mud to the frizz. "We've done this dozens of times." She looked over towards the stands where a slender figure waited. She thought no one had figured out what she was doing but Ron had, even if no one else had. Hermione was bedding Pansy Parkinson.

"Alright!" she yelled to the rest of the group. "You've all done great! We'll pick this up tomorrow at three!"

_There'll be peace when you are done_

The rest of the group trouped off the field. Some carried brooms, others flying carpets. The threstrals had been lead away by Hagrid a while ago. Sometimes it felt like the pre-war had been going on forever. Every day was the same since sixth year had started. School, more school, punctuated by plans on how to take down the Dark Lord and then drills after lunch. Some of the time they even did astronomy. As if the Dark Lord would attack them and the positions of the stars would be important.

_Lay your weary head to rest_

He couldn't wait to go to bed. The best part of the day had become when he got to lay down to sleep, soft sheets, courtesy of the House Elves, and blissful, mostly uninterrupted sleep.

_Don't you cry no more_

But he was getting sick of going to bed feeling like trash. How Ginny was faster on a broom than him, never mind that he was flying an old school broom. How Hermione better at making new devices to use against the Dark Lord; potion grenades, miniturized flying carpets that worked like Muggle surfboards, Teddy-Weres while they slept, tracking medallions and various forms of communication in case thy got separated. How harry was The Chosen One, and The Golden Boy, and how he had to take down the Dark Lord figure each time. He'd had chess and strategy for a while, until the ever-so-handsome Terry Boot had shown him up. Now he was relegated to side-kick, Harry's back-up man, wing-man, the one who was most likely to die in the battle pointlessly to save someone else because he hadn't learned the counter charms. Even Neville was better at something than him, what with the defensive plants he was helping Sprout grow outside the walls, some sort of cross between the Whomping Willow and a Snake Vine; it both strangled and poisoned you at the same time. Horrible thing. Who'd known Neville had it in him?

_Once I rose above the noise and confusion_

He'd gotten good at the defensive bit of things for a while, back when they were using basic things, the sort of stuff Aurors usually had to deal with today. Then Draco Malfoy, smug, self-important, puffed-up-since-he-won-Quidditch-Malfoy decided to mentioned that the Dark Lord's followers certainly wouldn't limit themselves to basic spellwork, never mind what the dark Lord would do. So they had begun researching complex dark charms and magic, going so far as to send the twins into Knockturn alley to go and get certain half-illegal books, and Kingsley to get the real illegal ones. Malfoy had even been brought into the circle of defenders to help more. No one was sure they could trust him, but no one else at school had his level of training in the Dark Arts. Even Krum, yes, _Victor Krum_, Hermione's ex, didn't know as much, and him a Durmstrang graduate.

Just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion

He had used to imagine that he'd end up doing something important in the fight. He had used to think that he'd be the Sam to Harry's Frodo (Hermione had dragged him and Harry to the Muggle cinemas to see all three over the last few years). They'd do the last bit of the journey alone, just the two of them while Hermione directed the rest of the DA and fought the main corps, it'd be him and Harry alone in the last battle, taking down You-Know-Who together.

_I was soaring ever higher_

In his most-hidden dreams he'd liked to imagine Harry falling at the end. Harry falling down and almost dying, and Ron picking up his wand and dueling You-Know-Who and shouting things about friendship and war, and finally, _finally_, defeating him, and seeing his body fall to the ground. He liked to imagine the last bit would happen with a bit of an audience, the last of the army would arrive behind him, just as he took down The Dark Lord, shouting something amazing. How they'd cry _his_ name and he'd get to outshine Harry for once, and then when Harry would be well again, he'd thank Ron, and they'd be worshipped together. And he liked even more to think Harry would be grateful that some of the attention was off of him this time, and that Harry would cast admiring looks at him sometimes, admiring Ron for the one thing he Harry had not done. Harry being grateful that Ron had been his best friend and had picked him up and fought for him when he needed it.

_But I flew too high_

But it was all a load of bull. If anyone would save Harry it would be Hermione, one of the best duelers in the school since Snape had started giving her secret lessons, or perhaps Draco, if he proved true. Ron would be left behind in the glittering wake of his all-too-talented friends, an idiot and a loser.

_Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man_

He'd be pushed aside at parties. He'd be even less than people like Ernie or Neville, people who only did a little bit, because he was Harry's best friend, and he was a loser. Even Ginny, silly, inconscential Ginny who was already fighting in her "perfect" relationship with Harry, would be better than him. After all, no one expected Harry Potter's girlfriend to endanger herself; after all, where was the next generation of heroes supposed to come from?

_Though my mind could think I still was a mad man_

Harry thought he was angry for some reason and kept trying to talk to him. Ron couldn't and wouldn't explain that he was angry about being a loser. After all, who could talk about how they feared how they'd go down in history next to their best friend when people might die? When they might in fact not win the war at all?

_I hear the voices when I'm dreaming_

In his worst nightmares he planned out how the future would go if the Dark Lord won. Ginny and his parents would of course be made an Example Of, and tortured to death. Harry hopefully, would be killed in the battle, and would not have to suffer any such horrors except for what would be printed about him. Hermione, if she survived would be killed eventually for being a Mudblood. The twins would die after causing too much trouble, as they always did. Bill and Charlie might escape; Charlie was off in Romania still, and Bill might get out with Fleur. Percy, he liked to think would finally stand up at the end, and try and fight and be killed quietly in his office after cheeking a Death Eater. It might even be unintentional on his part; he hated disorder and mess. But he, Ron might be allowed to live, being not important or dangerous enough to die.

_I can hear them say_

Back when he was younger, back in Third year, after learning about the Mauraders, he'd liked to think of himself as Sirius. Harry of course was his father reborn, James, and the he, Ron, had hoped to become Sirius. Someone who was quite good looking and from an old family, someone who got brilliant marks and all the girls while Harry kept to his one steady girlfriend. Hermione, of course, was Remus, studious and fighting a handicap, though in her case it was being a Muggle Born rather than a werewolf. He'd thought of Neville as being rather like Peter then, and had spent part of the fourth year watching Neville for signs of a betrayal before admitting that Neville simply wasn't enough of a friend to get close enough to betray them for anything really important, if he would at all.

Now Ron thought of himself as Peter; the loser, the betrayer, the fool, the fat one who never got a girlfriend, the useless one who was just tagging along on the gilded coattails of his betters and only one slice was needed to leave him behind.

Hermione had heard him say some of these things before and had almost scoffed at him. She didn't have to worry about her position in the war and history; she'd be famous for what she did afterwards, not just what she did in the war. She was brilliant after all.

If the Dark Lord won though, all of that would be gone though. Hermione would never discover fifteen new uses for Dragon's blood and invent half a dozen new curses and counter curses, never do anything important. Harry would never get to grow up and have a normal life. Ron would be the only one to benefit from it; he'd be famous. Spat at and cursed at in the streets by those who hated The Dark Lord as a failure, as the last fallen Hope, and laughed at by the Death Eaters as being too unimportant to kill. If they noticed him at all that was.

_Masquerading as a man with a reason_

Sometimes he thought about just giving up at practice. About letting the others fight the war, and going off on his own. Mind, he wouldn't have anyone to do anything with, no loud evenings playing with the twins' experimental sweets with Harry, no games of chess with Ernie, no homework with Hermione. All his friends were fighting; why shouldn't he? Even of he didn't earn any glory.

_My charade is the event of the season_

Glory wasn't everything. That's what he tried to tell himself. There were all kinds of bravery after all; Dumbledore himself had said so. So why couldn't there be all kinds of glory? Like the silent kind no one talked about, but that was still there, silent and unnoticed? After all, Van Goh hadn't been celebrated as a painted until after his death; why couldn't Ron's glory be celebrated after his death by idiot-writers who made things about him up to sell books? Because then he'd be dead and wouldn't gain anything from it; not a glowing look of admiration, not his mother's little mad dashing around in pride, not his father's clap on the shoulder and a hearty "well done!," even _Percy_ had gotten one of _those_.

_And if I claim to be a wise man, well; It surely means that I don't know_

But he couldn't measure up to even Percy could he? He was the least of the Weasleys. He had the least OWLs (except for Fred and George, but who cared about OWLs when you owned a thriving business?), was the worst at Quidditch (even Ginny could beat him), and was the last boy. Even beside his best friend he was nothing but a boring side-kick. He hadn't even managed to keep Harry occupied enough to stop him from going after Ginny.

_On a stormy sea of moving emotion_

Harry had stopped mentioning what they'd used to do after lights in sixth year. He could almost taste it again. It was the sheer taste of GLEE, of sneaking into Harry's bed after lights to eat stolen sweets from Hogsmead and getting a little drunk. And who cared then, if one of them sat a little too close, or if, once or twice his lips brushed over Harry's? It wasn't abnormal. It was just teenaged fun.

_Tossed about I'm like a ship on the ocean_

But it was so much MORE. It was like, winning a game of chess. It was like when you'd spent hours planning and strategizing and working at it, and re-adjusting only to have that sweet moment when you finally WON rush in. Triumph was a heady sensation, like being simultaneously drunk and racing after the quaffle on a broomstick. Those moments leading up, with the wind in your hair, and then the catch... It was amazing.

_I set a course for winds of fortune_

It had been amazing. Everything was different now. Harry was semi-dating, semi-fighting Ginny now, his little sister. It made him sick to his stomach to see him kissing her, and twine his hands, little light, Seekers' hands into her red hair. It made him wish it was him instead. He was dating Lavendar Brown now, sort of. There wasn't much of a point to it at all.

_But I hear the voices say_

People usually thought her stupider than him, that was one thing. What with her silly obsession with Trelawney and Divination (as if anyone really knew what they were talking about with that stuff), and her obsession with pink and Witch Weekly, she was the perfect distraction from his own faults. And everyone knew she was in love with Padma anyway. That was why she hung around Parvati so much.

He hated to think that one day he'd end up stuck with her. Married with a bunch of red-blond children, all wearing pink. He had the strangest idea he'd end up wearing pink, frilly dress robes to his own wedding, ones worse than what he'd worn to the Yule ball even.

_No!_

The worst of it was what they didn't know. How he lusted after Harry. Not loved. Somehow that was different. As a best friend, he was there for Harry, but if he was in love with Harry, if Harry felt the same way... He could just imagine how things would end. The wizarding world didn't like homosexuals anymore than catholic priests did. He hated to think of Harry having to choose between him and everything else. Not when he knew what the answer would be.

_Carry on, you will always remember_

At least he could remember when he was a kid. When he was younger and none of those thoughts had ever crossed his mind. When girls had been icky, with cooties, and older boys someone cool to talk to. He hadn't been all screwed up then.

_Carry on, nothing equals the splendor_

Everything had been better then; his marks in school, his friendship with Harry (even when Hermione had joined them, it hadn't changed them that much). He could still remember sitting by the fire with Harry, giggling over their predictions they'd make up for Trelawny's class while Hermione pored over some old tomb. Parvati and Lavendar had always been jealous of the marks Harry and he'd gotten. It was ironic that neither he nor Harry studied at all for that class, yet outscored almost everyone.

_The center lights around your vanity_

But it was stupid of him to keep thinking how well he'd done then. He hadn't, he just liked to think he had, his view of the world so limited that an E was a good grade. If only he'd studied more, paid attention in class more often, done SOMETHING more, then he wouldn't be feeling so overwhelmed now. Everything he had to do, everything he wanted to do, they just seemed like two separate things. And it felt like nothing he could ever do would bring them together.

_But surely heaven waits for you_

But if they won, would it matter that he hadn't done much? That he'd been more a blunderer, a hindrance, than a help? If they won, no one else would be dead. No one else would be dead. But he'd know, and the gulf between him and Harry would widen. It wouldn't be The Boy Who Lived and his best friend anymore, but The Man Who Triumphed. Alone.

He'd be left behind, to rot along with their childhood memories while Harry went on to bigger and better things.

_Carry on my wayward son_

Walking away now wouldn't change anything. The future was there. Whether the Dark Lord won or not, he'd still be a loser. One of many Weasleys. The only thing he could do was just keep going. Just keep trying. Just keep annoying Hermione with his ineptitude, just keep enduring Draco's snide remarks about him. He wouldn't be a coward and skip out of the war like so many people were choosing to do. As if running would help.

_There'll be peace when you are done_

One thing he'd look forward to when the war was over was a being clean. Not having to constantly go out and practice and crash and get covered in so much mud he no longer looked like a Weasley. There was never enough hot water now. Even the lake couldn't supply that much.

_Lay your weary head to rest_

Once the war was over, he could look into patching things up between him and Harry maybe. See if he still wanted to leave Britain and see the world. He wouldn't even mind much if Harry paid his way. He still felt guilty about that even now. He hated being poor.

_Don't you cry (don't you cry no more)_

But at least no one would be getting murdered in their beds. The attacks on Hogwarts would be over. The ministry could be rebuilt. Everything would be better.

Ron gritted his teeth and pushed himself off the make-shift bed in the infirmary. Outside it was raining like mad, the quidditch players so far away they seemed like droplets of rain who had taken midn of their own to fly upwards. He could spot Harry out in front, mock-battling Boot, the flashes between their wands like lightning.

He wiped his soggy mud-covered hair back from his face and stepped back out onto the pitch. He watched for a second more, getting his bearings in the chaos, then kicked off from the ground, chasing after Harry.

**Warning:**

**Due to school and other events, I will probably only be posting things every few weeks (I want to post 2 chapters for Oediopus every month, but may fail), so yeah. Just be warned. Also for this song-fic series, I'll write up an order of events for you lot when there are 15-20 or so of them.**


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